o-day? Nonsense!"

"If not, then another day."

"Rubbish! Come on."

"Do you think we could take precautions?" he asked, furtively.

"Take all you like," I said; "rack your brains for an antidote to
neutralize the bad luck, only come on, you great gaby!"

I knew many of the Finistere legends; out of the corner of my eye I
watched this stalwart rascal, cowed by gross superstition, peeping
about for some favorable sign to counteract the luck of St. Hubert.

First he looked up at the crows, and counted them as they passed
overhead cawing ominously--one--two--three--four--five! Five is danger!
But wait, more were coming: one--two--three--four--five--six--seven--! A
loss! Well, that was not as bad as some things. But hark! More crows
coming: one--two--three! Death!

"Jesu!" he faltered, ducking his head instinctively. "I'll look
elsewhere for signs."

The signs were all wrong that morning; first we met an ancient crone
with a great pack of fagots on her bent back, and I was sure he could
have strangled her cheerfully, because there are few worse omens for a
hunter of game or of men. Then he examined the first mushroom he
found, but under the pink-and-pearl cap we saw no insects crawling.
The veil, too, was rent, showing the poisonous, fluted gills; and the
toadstool blackened when he cut it with the blade of his fagot-knife.

He tried once more, however, and searched through the gorse until he
found a heavy lizard, green as an emerald. He teased it till it
snapped at the silver franc in my hand; its teeth should have
vanished, but when he held out his finger the creature bit into it
till the blood spurted.

Still I refused to turn back. What should he do? Then into his mind
crept a Pouldu superstition. It was a charm against evil, including
lightning, black-rot, rheumatism, and "douleurs" of other varieties.

The charm was simple. We needed only to build a little fire of gorse,
and walk through the smoke once or twice. So we built the fire and
walked through the smoke, the Lizard coughing and cursing until I
feared he might overdo it by smothering us both. Then stamping out
the last spark--for he was a woodsman always--we tramped on in better
humor with destiny.

"You think that turned the curse backward, m'sieu?" he asked.

"There is not the faintest doubt of that," I said.

Far away towards Sainte-Ysole we saw the blue woods which were our
goal. However, we had no intention of going there as the bee flies,